Winter's Pale Light
by mrstserc
Summary: Set after episode 8.14, contains spoilers if you have not seen this episode, please do not read. Dean struggles with his emotions after failing to complete the first trial. It's just a drabble. It's rated T for language - to be safe. I do not own any rights to Supernatural.


Winter dead and overgrown, the property around the Men of Letters bunker is remarkably, well, unremarkable. One thing it does have though is miles of empty space around it. Plenty of room to roam for a guy who is doing his best not to let all his bottled up anxiety and stress spill over to break the uneasy truce and possible rekindling of a brotherly bond with Sam.

Dean Winchester pulls a long piece of dead grass out as he walks on, no real destination in mind, and he strips it and places the smooth center between his teeth, worrying it while his mind keeps throwing ideas around like clothes in a dryer. A dryer – this place has one. A washer too. His own room, first he's ever decorated himself. A kitchen to practice skills he picked up from, well, best not to go down that road. He knows the memories of Lisa and Ben lead to more guilt and shame.

No, Dean is trying to clear all the bad feelings, not dwell on them. But damn it's hard.

Not that he expects his life to be easy. Why would it start now?

The wind picks up a little more and Dean looks around until he finds an area sheltered by a few big evergreen trees and lowers himself to the ground, knees bent to make a resting place for crossed arms. He wants to pray, but he knows Cas hears his prayers, and he doesn't want to bother him right now. No telling what shit Cas is dealing with in Heaven, he thinks.

Dean is mulling over what Sam said before he read the incantation to begin God's trials after killing the Hell Hound. The one Dean was supposed to kill. The one he fucked up instead of getting it done. He snorts in disbelief remembering Sam saying he was the best damned hunter he had ever met. Best hunters don't fuck up and leave their brothers to clean up their messes. Yeah, Dean's pretty sure that this is up there with his legendary catastrophes and mistakes because now he has to watch the only thing he cares about in life be put in harm's way, probably end up dead. It'll be Dean's fault for pulling him back into this crappy life again.

And if Sam dies, Dean's planning to be right there not far behind because he just can't do that again. Won't. He wipes at his eyes where the wind must have blown some pollen in it or something. He's not really sure if he can hold it together to even be able to help Sam do this. His one mission in life totally screwed up again.

You just wouldn't think keeping one overgrown little brother safe would be so damned difficult. His prime objective torn away from him again.

Sam said Dean was a genius too, and if there's an ounce of truth in it, Dean's going to try to find a way to think of some other options. Something that will make this sick dread about Sam and bone-deep worry over Castiel make some kind of sense.

Dean knows he has been struggling with his emotions more than ever before – purgatory had been like living in a war zone, and he wasn't a picture of mental health before he got zapped there. Too torn up with grief for Bobby, drinking too much, trying to find a way to keep caring, trying to deal with Cas, and Sam, the Leviathan….

Damn, there went his mind spinning out of control again. He groans and goes to wipe his eyes again, sees how hard his hand is shaking and tries to will it to stop. Jedi mind tricks out of order, he thinks. Dean knows he has issues – like his abandonment issues with Sam not even looking for him.

God, he's a wreck and trying to hold all this inside is tearing him up even more.

I tried, Dean thinks, I read some self-help shit and tried. Make clear I need statements about what you need to feel less anxious and stressed. "I thought I did that," he mutters to himself. He thinks back over when he told Sam what he needed – for Sam to be safe – same thing he has needed since Dad make that his job that night in the nursery. It came from a place inside him that had long ago accepted that he was a soldier, and his only way out honorably would be either by winning the war or feet first. And that was okay – it's a warrior code and he is a warrior.

"_I'm a grunt, Sam. You're not. You've always been the brains of this operation. And you told me yourself that you see a way out. You see a light at the end of this ugly-ass tunnel. I don't. But I tell you what I do know. It's that I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand…'cause that's what I have waiting for me. And that's all I have waiting for me. I want you to get out. I want you to have a life…become a Man of Letters, whatever. You, with a wife and kids and…and grandkids…living until you're fat and bald and chugging Viagra. That is my perfect ending. And that's the only one I'm gonna get. So I'm gonna do these trials. I'm gonna do them alone. End of story."_

Guess that wasn't clear enough, or eloquent enough, or convincing enough because next thing he knows his brother has made it about whether Dean trusts him, and he's handing over that little piece of paper, like he didn't feel it dragging his heart and guts and lungs out of his body. Now the possibility of having his only chance at peace of mind was gone.

"Why?" Dean breaks down and demands of a sky lit by winter's pale light. "And how am I going to be able to get through this?"

Dean makes himself keep breathing, keeping it as steady as he can.


End file.
